


To Trust a Drow

by Dayla



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: After the Black Pits, Black Pits, Building trust, Cultural Differences, Drow, Drow Culture, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enhanced Edition, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Headcanon, My First AO3 Post, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Canon Compliant, Redemption, Slow Burn, Trust, WIP, Well Okay Maybe Redemption, Wild Mage, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 22:30:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20317072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayla/pseuds/Dayla
Summary: “It’s foolish to rely on weapons you haven’t mastered.”Wild mage Yawra has grown up protected and without a need to learn control her magic. But now that her foster-father is dead and she finds herself on the run with a motley party of companions, Yawra desperately needs to master her skills – and overcome the memories of her narrow escape from the Underdark where she had to fight for her life in drow sorcerer Baeloth’s arena.To her surprise, she comes across him again on the surface. This time, it’s Baeloth who could use some protection far from home – and who in turn could help Yawra to fully control her magic. But is she really willing to trust him enough to let him join her party … or even forgive him?





	1. Prologue: A Wild Mage's Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As a wild mage, Yawra has a lot of trouble controlling her magic, but there's an even bigger trouble she's hiding from her companions: the time she has spent in the Black Pits._

Yawra felt the magic sizzle in her fingertips, the words of an incantation echoing inside her without voicing them. She wouldn’t need to. This was wild magic.  
  
“Yawra!”  
  
Imoen’s warning had her concentration burst. Yawra opened her eyes, finding herself face to face with one of the bandits, and gasped as she stumbled backwards. The spell broke before she had it fully casted, raining from her fingertips in glimmering sparks that let the blade in the man’s hand flash up.  
A light buzz in the air, and then it was the bandit stumbling backwards and to his knees, his eyes wide, his hand reaching for the arrow that had hit him in the breast.

Yawra didn’t turn to give Kivan a thankful nod. She just backed off further so she could fumble for her sling and a stone.  
Somewhere ahead, another bandid gurgled as he fell down. Dorn stood above him, breathing heavily, and when Yawra saw Minsc’s impressive shape emerge from the underwood, she knew the fight was over.  
  
With a sigh, she slipped the stone back into her pocket.

Hey, you alright?” Imoen was already by her side, reaching for her shoulder.  
  
Yawra felt her face burning. _Well, what do you think? Nearly getting myself killed because I failed at the simplest spell. Again. How could I possibly be alright?  
_  
Nevertheless, she cleared her throat and forced herself to smile. “I’m fine.” She turned around, meeting Kivan’s gaze as he lowered his bow. “Thank you.”  
  
“Maybe you should stop relying on magic,” Imoen said quietly. “I mean … until you’ve practiced more.”  
  
“If this isn’t practice, I don’t know what is,” Yawra replied dryly.  
  
“This was …” Imoen gestured vaguely. “Combat.”  
  
Yawra snorted, grabbing her sling tighter. “And I’ve used magic in combat. Before.”  
  
She turned away and walked towards Minsc and Dorn before Imoen could say more. Still, she felt her friend’s concerned glare, and probably, Kivan was watching her with the same expression.  
  
“It’s foolish to rely on weapons you haven’t mastered,” Dorn said as she approached him.  
  
Yawra inhaled sharply. She had hoped that the blackguard hadn’t noticed her moment of distress, that he had been too busy fighting off the bandits himself. Of course she had been wrong. “You’ll never master weapons if you don’t use them,” she pointed out.  
  
The half-orc looked down at her with a straight face. “If you try that in battle, you won’t live to master them.”  
  
“You had Boo worried for a moment there, little mage,” Minsc called out, stepping closer. “And me as well. You should keep pretty firework to inns and carnivals. Boo also thinks your magic is a toy, not a weapon.”  
  
Yawra bit her lip. “Would you please stop it?” she hissed. “All of you? I get it, thank you very much.”  
  
“Yawra, all we’re saying is that you’ve just started out.” Imoen had caught up with them, Kivan close behind her. “I mean, you didn’t master the sling within a couple of days, did you? Maybe we can get you a pile of books or you could take some lessons …”  
  
“Hire a mage who knows what he’s doing,” Dorn growled – well under his breath, but she still heard him.  
  
For a moment, she thought about a snarky reply, then just swallowed hard and turned away. “Let’s get moving.”  
  
At least in this, nobody dissented. Daylight was fading already, and Yawra doubted they’d make it to the next town or find an inn out here in the woods before night fell.  
  
_I’ve used magic in combat before. And it saved my life.  
_  
She wondered whether she should just tell her companions. Imoen, at least, had a right to know. Maybe Yawra should have told her right away when her friend had finally found her back in that other forest, some days after Gorion’s death. _Mere days? Doesn’t feel like it.  
_  
Of course, Imoen had asked questions. And of course, she had been bewildered by Yawra’s silence, by her trembling, by how she avoided Imoen’s gaze. But then again, it had been more than obvious to her that the reason was the attack on Gorion that Yawra had witnessed, her desperate escape and her straying through the forest for days. Imoen had no idea what had _actually_ and additionally happened, and Yawra just hadn’t found the words to tell her. After all, the more she thought about it, it just seemed like a confuse nightmare, and maybe none of her memories was even true.  
  
_Maybe I never fought for my life in the Underdark. Maybe it was but a fever dream, and the others never existed.   
_  
Somehow, that idea made more sense than to believe it had all been true.  
  
Suddenly, Kivan was beside her like a shadow, blocking her path with his arm, and the gesture made the others stop as well.  
  
The ranger had raised one finger to his lips, looking concentrated. “There’s voices,” he whispered.  
  
Now Yawra heard it too, although faint and distant. But still, she distinguished something that sounded like a painful whimper, followed by a thin cry for help.  
  
“Someone’s in trouble,” Minsc said, and his hamster gave an approving squeak.  
  
“More bandits?” Imoen asked quietly.  
  
Yawra just shrugged, then gave the archer a nod. “Let’s go find out,” she muttered.  
  
“It’s not our business,” Dorn snarled, but he still followed as they moved towards the sounds as carefully as they could.  
  
Yawra let Imoen and Kivan lead the way. They were both better at sneaking than she was. Given what she knew about Kivan’s past and that one brutal encounter with bandits, she could understand why he seemed always eager to intervene when he found somebody threatened by a similar situation. And Imoen was always in for any kind of adventure. Still, Yawra wondered whether her childhood friend was actually taking any of this endeavour seriously, or whether to her it was all just a big and exciting game.  
  
She heard the voices again, now much closer, and saw a hint of red flickering through the trees.  
  
Several people who seemed to be discussing, but she couldn’t make out the words. She searched for Kivan’s and Imoen’s silhouettes, both almost completely merged with the shadows of the underwood, when suddenly Minsc inhaled sharply beside her.  
  
‟It’s Red Wizards, and Boo has seen them too!” the big man hissed, then quickened his pace before Yawra could say anything. ‟We will not let them do whatever they are up to!”  
  
‟Minsc –” Yawra began, but he was already way ahead of her.  
  
No wonder he reacted that way, though. After all, it had been a Red Wizard of Thay who had killed the witch Minsc had been sworn to protect.  
  
‟What a fool,” Dorn growled. ‟All of you, actually, playing noble heroes out here. You don’t even _know_ what they are doing over there.” He shrugged, although Yawra noted that he already reached for his sword. ‟Could be against someone who actually deserves it.”  
  
Yawra tried not to roll her eyes.  
  
‟Tell that to Minsc,” she whispered, fumbled for her sling and hurried up, well aware that Dorn followed allong even if gnashingly.  
  
‟You there! You stop it! Whatever you’re doing! You stop it right now!” Minsc yelled and broke through the underwood.  
  
Yawra saw Kivan’s figure emerge, saw him ready to nock the first arrow, cursed under her breath and ran. This was not how it was supposed to go!  
  
And then, she heard the other voice again, the one that must have given the whimper before, but this time, she heard it loud and clearly.

‟Indeed, you sour-looking, squalid surfacers! Release me right away and remain aloof!”

Yawra stumbled. She would have fallen if not for Dorn who had caught up and grabbed her arm.  
  
_Impossible_, she thought as the voice echoed in her mind. _It can’t be him. He can’t be here. We killed him, didn't we? It’s just my mind.  
_  
‟Minsc, no!” Imoen yelled, and Yawra saw her friend practically fly out of the shadows, clinging to Minsc’s arm and trying to slow him down. ‟That’s not our way!”  
  
”It’s _them_!” Minsc groaned, sounding like an injured animal, and Yawra understood it would take quite some effort to calm him down and prevent him from slaying however many wizards might be over there.  
  
This one thought pushed aside all the others, and Yawra ran until she reached the clearing.


	2. Comeback of an Entertainer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Baeloth had his resurrection carefully planned, but missed one detail - a decisive one._

Darkness. Dampness. Coldness.  
  
It was distressfully uncomfortable. But as he felt his consciousness resurging from a black deeper than any other darkness, Baeloth realized that a feeling of inconvience also meant to be alive, and this, at least, was good news.  
  
_Moronic miscreants! They have framed me with foul farces and feints! But they are due to discover that I am not yet defeated and that their deviant disobedience will not go –  
_  
Then blinding light bit through his lids, and he gasped.  
  
‟Damn you, Najim,‟ he muttered and blinked. ‟I deserve a more comfortable and considerate care.‟  
  
He blinked again.  
  
Clearly, this was nowhere near his Black Pits. It wasn’t even the Underdark. He was lying on a distastefully green and soft ground with an ugly smell, the light was harsh and unpleasantly bright, and as Baeloth glanced around, he found himself beneath a canopy of truly nauseating blue colour. He felt a little bit lightheaded, but that might be a side effect of the resurrection charm Najim had worked on him. That weakness would pass soon, he told himself. At least he lived.  
  
_Most cautious, cunning and clear-sighted of me to take care of such an unlikely outcome.   
_  
Carefully, he stood and looked around, waiting for his djinn to show up. Wherever Baeloth was, this could only be some kind of intermediate reality level, slightly more appealing than the Demonweb Pits where dead drows were actually bound to go – or so it was told.  
  
‟Najim!‟ he called as he beat the dust out of his robes. ‟I shall hope for you that these swinish surroundings are simply a sojourning scenery and not actually the surface.‟  
  
Nobody answered.  
  
Baeloth snorted. Once he was back in the Black Pits, he would teach Najim not to make him wait again like that! First, of course, he’d take care of that calamitous cluster of crooks and cozeners! That wild mage was behind everything, he had no doubt. She had quite amused him with her clumsy way of not being capable to control her casting … but apparently, he had underestimated her skills. Oh, but she would not get the chance to defy him again. He would make sure of that.  
  
‟What is taking you so long?‟ he snapped, realizing that he still felt rather … incomplete. A little bit out of balance. ‟You fool! I am not fully revived! I am diminished, damaged, and dangerously deteriorated!‟  
  
There was still no answer, and no other sign that Najim had heard him … or planned to intervene anytime soon.  
  
Baeloth swallowed hard, and glanced at his surroundings once again. And if this actually was the surface? What if the djinn had cast him here?  
  
_Very well, but why would this well-behaved wight even consider … Oh. No, no, no, he can’t have sided with them!   
_  
‟Najim?‟ he called again, although he was beginning to feel rather foolish. ‟Are you even listening? My most obedient serv–‟ Baeloth interrupted himself with an artificial cough. ‟Friend!‟ he corrected. Surely, this would appease the djinn, reminding him that he also had benefitted from his pact with Baeloth, mainly because it had bestowed upon him the privilege to call Baeloth his master. ‟Where are you? Surely you aren’t going to leave me up here!‟  
  
This time, he was hardly surprised by the following silence.  
  
The eventually evil evolution of events was more than evident: The djinn had betrayed him. True to his duty, he had revived his master, but Baeloth realized that he had never made it clear _where exactly_ he wanted to be resurrected: He had simply taken it for granted that Najim would return him to the Black Pits, or at least some nearby place of the Underdark. But for all he could see, the damn djinn had instead left him on the surface, a brute and barbaric place deeply despised by every decent drow! Disgusting!  
  
He couldn’t contain his rage.  
  
‟You conniving cur!‟ he yelled and stamped his foot. ‟I will crack your realm wide open and drag you into this plane of –‟  
  
Something crackled beside him and Baeloth stopped, realizing that he was probably not alone up here. He cleared his throat and turned.  
  
Three men in luminous red robes had stepped between the ugly wooden stuff that surfacers, if Baeloth remembered correctly, called _trees_. Regarding the humans, in contrast, he instantly knew who they were, as he had had a group of them fighting down in his very own arena. Red Wizards of Thay! But what a deception they had been.  
  
However, he forced himself to a smile. ‟Oh, hello,‟ he said as casually as possible. ‟Well, this is awkward.‟  
  
The three men didn’t reply, but interchanged quick looks.  
  
Baeloth resisted the urge to clear his throat again … or to retrocede. They made him uncomfortable, but it wouldn’t have been wise to admit that, and furthermore, there was no reason to feel that way! After all, he was still Baeloth Barrityl, surely one of the top five spell casters in all of the realms, and those wizards must know that they stood no chance against him. Also, weren’t those Thay wizards somewhat more open towards drows than other surfacers? There had been some kind of alliances, hadn’t here? And they hadn’t attacked him yet, which clearly was a good sign.  
  
‟Greetings, friendly, ah, surface-dweller.‟ Or should he have said Red Wizards? Did they even have a particular way of being adressed? He probably had known before but Najim apparently had robbed him that knowledge as well! ‟You wouldn’t happen to know the direction to the nearest entrance to the Underdark, would you?‟  
  
There! Keep it short and simple. Any moment now, they would smile and bow politely, and point him into the right direction, maybe offering an escort which he would, of course, decline at first, then generously accept as a sign of respect for surface traditions, and then …  
  
‟Apparently healthy and in acceptable shape,‟ one of the wizards said, and it took Baeloth a moment to realize that the man was talking to his fellow wizards rather than to the exiled drow who had just asked them a question. ‟We shall be handsomely rewarded, I think. Grab him.‟  
  
‟What?‟ he gasped, stumbling backwards and preparing to cast a spell that would defend him, but he was too slow – or those surface bastards to quick. The two wizards lunged at him while the third one cast a spell that hit Baeloth hard and blinded him for a moment. Next thing he new, the other two surfacers had grabbed him quite brutally and were trying to force him to the ground.  
  
‟No, no, no, no, you moronic miscreants! This is a major mistake! Unhand me in this very moment!”  
  
‟Shut up, drow, before we cut your nasty tongue out,” one of the wizards hissed.  
  
Baeloth squirmed and struggled, even tried kicking, but to no avail. They were surprisingly strong for surface wizards, and clearly, they weren’t at the disadvantage to just have been revived by a treacherous djinn. Baeloth vaguely remembered that the Red Wizards were known for rather rude experiments on any magic they were interested in, oh, and for slavery as well, a cute commonality with drow society, but for Lolth’s sake, he had no interest in partaking as anything different than a trader!  
  
‟Release me, now!” he exclaimed, then whimpered in pain because one of the wizards was apparently trying to yank his arm off. It dawned on Baeloth that he was in real, big trouble – and wouldn’t be able to deal with it on his own. He gasped again. ‟Help!” he shouted, well aware that this was rather futile. Even if there was anybody nearby in this lousy wooden labyrinth, which surfacer would actually stand up against various wizards just to help a drow? And even if there had been fellow drows, this by no means meant that they would have come and aided Baeloth. Or if they did, the trouble afterwards might be even worse.  
  
‟Silence him!” one of the wizards snarled.  
  
He saw the third one had already some magic flashing up between his hands, preparing to cast a spell, and probably a silencing one that would leave Baeloth completely helpless for the moment. Once more, he tried to break away, or at least to focus on a quick spell he could cast to gain some time, but he felt unable to focus.  
  
In that very moment, a big human broke through out onto the clearing, wielding a swords. ‟You there! You stop it! Whatever you’re doing! You stop it right now!” he yelled.  
  
Baleoth wasn’t sure but he thought he heard something squeak defiantly, too.  
  
‟You release that drow, or you will get to know my hamster!”  
  
The wizard with the silencing spell blinked in confusion. ‟Your what?”  
  
Baeloth felt the same confusion, but he decided this was not the moment to deal with it, especially not as an archer stepped out behind the sword man, apparently ready to assist him. ‟Indeed, you sour-looking, squalid surfacers!” he called. ‟Release me right away and remain aloof!”  
  
The third wizard gave him a sour look, then turned to the warrior. ‟This is none of your –”  
  
‟Minsc, no!” Now a young girl practically flew out of the shadows, clinging to the big one’s arm. ‟That’s not our way!”  
  
‟It’s _them_!” the big man – whose name appeared to be Minsc – howled accusingly.  
  
That was becoming interesting, Baeloth thought. Three surfacers, all more or less inclined to step in for him, and all quite fit to confuse the Red Wizards. And nobody had cast a silencing spell on him by now, which meant he _could_ make use of his new audience. If he came up with something witty enough, that was.  
  
‟Again, this is none of your business. We’re just here for the drow,” the third wizard said icily.  
  
Then, more creaking from between the wood, and out stepped … _she_.  
  
The wild mage.  
  
Baeloth inhaled sharply, searching for her gaze but she seemed to avert hers quite on purpose. She stood with her fists clenched, all tense, and this told him she knew perfectly well he was there even if she pretended she hadn’t noticed him.  
  
His own thoughts raced. What were the odds to come across her like that? Had she been in touch with Najim? Or was that part of the djinn’s plot? He had seemed rather fond of that little wild mage, hadn’t he? Maybe he had intended to throw his old master at her feet so she could finish him off. Their last encounter, Baeloth thought, had left no doubt that she would be more than happy to do that. She had come close before, and now that they met on her territory, she could end it.  
  
And she would! She would call her companions – because that apparently they were – back and let the Red Wizards have their way. Baeloth knew he had to say something, make it quick and convincing, but what could that possibly be, once Yawra – that had been her name, right? – decided to reveal who he was?  
Another figure emerged. This time, it was an orc. Or a half-orc.  
  
Baleoth gulped.  
  
‟They’re doing evil things, and we can’t let them!” Minsc screamed, trying to shake off the girl on his arm. But the half-orc stepped up beside him and grabbed the other arm.  
  
‟Very well, gentlemen,” the arm-girl interjected with a smile that appeared to be remarkably sincere, ‟I think we can still work this out without anybody getting hurt, and convince my big friend here to, er, retain his hamster.”  
  
‟Yes, we can,” the third wizard replied. ‟You just get away and leave us to our business. We have no trouble with you, or at least not yet. This is just a drow.”  
  
‟I am not –” Baeloth began, but one of the other wizards holding him ruthlessly pressed a hand on his mouth, while the other one started to mutter a silencing spell for real this time.  
  
‟You let this drow go,” Minsc demanded, and the rage Baeloth felt in his voice made him shiver. Suddenly, he was sure that not even the half-orc would be able to hold back his fellow warrior much longer. Minsc clung to his sword and looked at the Red Wizards as if he meant to kill him with his bare gaze. He was steaming with rage, in a way Baeloth had seen in some fighters back at the Black Pits. It was a rage that lent them great strength and made them insensitive to any wound, but it also let them forget about friend and foe. Down in the arena, that lovely detail had made for many extremely entertaining fights. But up here, Baeloth realized, it was to be far less fun, because if that enraged fighter really got started, he would likely not stop until everybody on this clearing lay dead – including the drow Minsc claimed he wanted to save.  
  
His gaze flew to the wild mage. She must know.  
  
She took one step forward, raising one hand, firmly looking at the third wizard. "You’ve heard my friend. Release the drow."  
  
Baeloth would have given a surprised cry had he not been under that sinister silencing spell. But even so, he felt his eyes widen.  
  
_She’s not doing this for you,_ he told himself. _She’s doing it for the sake of her party, for her berserk friend over there and she probably hates every heartbeat of it.  
_  
"Who do you think you are?" the wizard spat.  
  
Suddenly, she smiled. "If you let him go right now, I’ll be the one who spared your lives."  
  
The wizards exchanged nervous glances, clearly pondering the situation. They were powerful, but they still had to deal with their prisoner, and the odds weren’t that favorable, either. Plus, the wizards were running out of time. Any moment now, the fighter would break free from the half-orc’s grip and lunge at them.  
  
Baeloth knew they had made their decision before they even voiced it. The third wizard cleared his throat and gave his companions a sour look. "Release him. Just a drow, not worth the effort."  
  
A heartbeat later, Baeloth found himself violently pushed to the ground, without even being able to curse.  
  
One of the wizards spat out beside him. The other told the wilde mage: "There you are. Now call the big guy off."  
  
He heard Yawra’s voice, gentle and soothing: "Calm down, Minsc, will you? See, they've let him go. It’s alright. You’re fine. Everything is fine."  
  
_Well, I would know about that_, Baeloth thought, trying to get to his feet when a pair of boots stepped into his field of view. Then, another one.  
  
The red-haired girl and the half-orc were staring down on him.  
  
"Hey there," the girl said, giving him a smile that once more, against all odds, seemed genuine. "You alright? It’s not that common to see drow up here."  
  
Slowly, he felt the silencing spell disperse. Hadn’t been well cast, after all.  
  
"My name is Imoen, and he’s Dorn," the girl said and, while doubtfully, reached out to help him up.  
  
Baeloth stared at her hand. He wasn’t too enthusiastic of touching the filthy fingers of a surfacer, but right now, he needed to come across as friendly as he possibly could and prevent them from changing their mind and killing him. He forced himself to smile and took Imoen’s hand.  
  
She eagerly introduced the other companions to him, although to be honest to only one that Baeloth didn’t know by now was the archer elf, who was called Kivan. He had already learnt about Minsc.  
  
And, of course, he knew about Yawra.  
  
"And who might you be?" Imoen said.  
  
In this very moment, Yawra walked up beside them.


	3. Well Met, Wild Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When Baeloth asks for her protection, Yawra finds it surprisingly difficult to come up with an answer._

She hadn’t expected to see Baeloth again, let alone up here. The last time she’d seen him, he had been lying in his arena’s bloody sand, nearly unconscious, and Yawra had turned away when Gallus stepped up to finish the drow. It had been her plan, after all, that had granted their group the victory. The Beholder’s hints and a good deal of strategic knowledge gathered from endless hours of lecture at Candlekeep had allowed her to do so, but that hadn’t meant that she felt able to wield a weapon other than her sling, and to kill anybody who was done defending himself.

She had heard the others gasp and learnt that the drow’s body had disappeared, but she still had supposed that this had been the end of it.

And now Baeloth stood there, way too alive and amongst her companions, granting Imoen with one of his arrogant smiles. However, it vanished completely when he discovered Yawra, and for a moment, she perceived something in his red eyes she hadn’t even seen there during their last fight in the Pits: fear.

He obviously knew why she had saved him from the Red Wizards – to stop Minsc from going berserk. And apparently he also understood that this moment was over. Minsc had gone quiet again, caressing Boo who was sitting happily on his palm. If Yawra told them the very drow he just had believed in need of protection had kidnapped her to the Underdark and made her fight for her life, Minsc wouldn’t hesitate to draw his sword again, and this time against Baeloth.  
  
He cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders and gently patting some dust from his robes. "Allow me to introduce myself: I am Baeloth Barrityl, more commonly known as …" Yawra was sure he hesitated. "Baeloth the Entertainer." He swallowed hard. "I’m, er, sure you have heard of me."  
His hand clasped the dark fabric of his robes, and hadn’t Yawra known who he was and what he was capable of, she might have felt pity.

_Tell them_, a voice in her head whispered. _Let them know. They’ll kill him. Dorn will crush his skull. You won’t even need to ask for it. All it takes are a few words of truth from your mouth, and this time, Baeloth will die for good._

She pursed her lips and looked at him, knowing she couldn’t extend the silence for long before it would become too awkward, or before Imoen would step in with her indestructible joy. "Heard of you," she said icily. "Can’t say I have."

Was that relief she spotted in his eyes? Or merely confusion?

"It’s unusual for a drow to come up here," Imoen pointed out. She was so friendly, so unsuspicious, ready to see some good even in a drow, and Yawra swallowed hard.  
  
Before the Black Pits, she had been the same, hadn’t she?

Baeloth straightened up, much like she had seen him do it in the Black Pits when he was about to give a little speech for whatever audience he found nearby – spectators, merchants or prisoners, it didn’t really matter as long as he could hear himself speak. ‟Indeed. Let me elucidate recent events. Perhaps many of your petty ponderances will be answered.”  
  
Imoen gave Yawra a short side glance, but didn’t interrupt the drow.  
  
Yawra pretended she hadn’t noticed, crossed her arms and listened to Baeloth as he summarized what had happened to him, carefully leaving out Yawra or the fact how the fraudulent fighters who had tricked him into facing them in battle had gotten into the Underdark in the first place. To someone who had never heard him talk before, his words had to seem elaborate and full of self-confidence, and if Yawra hadn’t known better, she’d probably bought the tale of the poor drow, betrayed and abandoned by his servants and companions, left bare to the boundless barbarism of the surface world. She had to force herself not to roll her eyes at this. To her, the subtle flurry in Baeloth’s voice was all too obvious. He was afraid, and every word of his was nothing but a desperate attempt to save his skin, to lure his audience into sympathy with his fate.

The others stood still. Yawra caught some compassion on Minsc’s face, but was – as often – unable to tell what Kivan and Dorn were thinking. Imoen’s face, as always, was an open book: She followed Baeloth’s story with fascination and compassion.

"But I am nothing if not calculatingly cautious, and so I instructed that djinn jerk Najim to grant me a final wish: that I be protected from death. Oh, he granted that one, all right."

Yawra bit her lip. It had been Najim, then, who had brought Baeloth here. A mere coincidence? Or had the djinn meant for her to kill the drow for good this time? Why her? Couldn’t he have thrown Baeloth at Gallus’ or Talana’s feet? Yawra’s former companions had proven to be much more cold-blooded than she was.  
  
_A final test, Najim? A second chance because you saw I couldn’t do it back there? _

Baeloth cleared his throat. "As you can see, I live again." He averted Yawra’s gaze as he spoke. "But I am … bereft of my previous power. I might even say that I am in a bit of a bind, unable to return to my home."  
Imoen gave Yawra another side glance. Not good. Back at Candlekeep, that kind of glances had been reserved for Winthrop when trying to convince him to let Imoen keep that stray kitten she had found.

"I feel a request coming," Dorn grumbled, and Yawra saw the drow flinch as if he felt caught.  
  
‟Very well, I …”  
  
_Don’t you dare to ask this_, Yawra thought._ You can’t._  
  
But she knew he would, and she also knew he was already setting up her own companions against her.

‟Clearly, I still command some of my powers,” Baeloth proceeded, sounding almost ingenuous. ‟Even in this diminished state, I must remain one of the top five spellcasters in all the realms.” Once again, he cleared his throat.  
  
_Don’t_, Yawra thought. _Because I will not give you that. I will decline, and I will tell them the truth, and then they will kill you, and no djinn will be there to revive you once more. I won’t even get my hands dirty with your blood_.  
  
‟If someone were to offer me …” A long pause, a cautious, almost begging glance towards her. ‟… martial protection, I’m sure I could be of great help to … whatever it is you’re doing.” Again, he looked at her.  
  
‟How dare you.” Yawra was surprised to hear her own voice whispering the words. ‟Ask me for protection, drow? How dare you?”

He didn’t step back, but shifted his weight, and the flickering in his red eyes gave away his fear – a fear so profound that it stopped her, for the moment, from saying more.  
  
‟Yawra!” Imoen hissed, and touched her arm. ‟Alone, he doesn’t stand a chance up here.”  
  
To her own surprise, Yawra found herself shrugging. ‟Or maybe he does. He won’t run into Red Wizards all the time, I guess.”  
  
She felt the others look at her, without any doubt aware that it wasn’t much like her to refuse help somebody asked for. Then again, it wasn’t like she let anybody join her party, either! She had refused the young wild mage they had met at Beregost, the annoying bard, even the cleric lady they had released from a petrification spell. Why then would anybody expect her to invite a drow on their travels?

She heard Baeloth clear his throat once more. ‟I do not make it a habit to beg others for aid, and I prefer to lend favors rather than request them …”  
  
‟Is that so?” she interrupted icily. ‟Then don’t start a new habit, I’d say. If you are as excellent as a spellcaster as you claim, you shouldn’t have any trouble to find an entrance to the Underdark and crawl back to where you came from.”

That wasn’t her. She knew it right away, and Imoen’s shocked gasp only confirmed it. It was as if the drow’s mere presence brought out the very worst of Yawra, a merciless cruelty she hadn’t even expected to find within her. She hated it.

Baeloth looked at her, the fear in his eyes more obvious now, but maybe that was only because by now his fingers were twitching nervously, and he had shifted back a little further. And there was something else, Yawra thought. With every word she said, she must have his faint hopes dwindling away.

_I should be satisfied. He’s lost and he knows it. He might be good at words but they won’t help him here. Just like I couldn’t convince him down there to let me go, he can’t convince me to have him come with me. He’s at my mercy, and I won’t have any, and I should enjoy this moment of perfect revenge instead of wondering how strange it feels._

She clenched her fists and kept staring into the drow’s wide red eyes. He’d be too proud to openly beg her, that much she knew. And she wasn’t even sure if it would have been what she wanted to hear.

‟Yawra,” Imoen said softly. ‟As I said. If we leave him here, he won’t last long. It’s not just the Red Wizards. But I bet the Flaming Fist does go after drow, and there are bandits out here, and dread wolves and … you know what we’ve been through. It’s dangerous to go alone.”  
  
Yawra didn’t avert her gaze from Baeloth. _I should say that I want all of those to happen to him. I should say that I wish him to be torn apart by wolves and beaten to death by Flaming Fist soldiers and before that happens, be as hopeless and fearful as a sentient being can possibly be, and …_  
  
She swallowed hard. The words tingled within her, asking to be released, but somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to speak them.  
  
_And maybe I can’t even bring myself to believe them. Despite everything … Do I really want this? Is that who I became in the Black Pits? Because this is not who I am. Or who I want to be_.  
  
Suddenly, she felt tired and confused, and almost grateful for Imoen to push her away from the dark thoughts that reached out for her. Yawra would have wished for some time on her own, at least some moments of silence to decide, but night was falling, and her companions wouldn’t wait forever. With a quick glance, she checked on their faces. Imoen looked concerned, maybe more about Yawra than the lonely drow they had encountered. Minsc, too, seemed compassionate, although a little overstrained. Kivan’s and Dorn’s expressions were most difficult to read, as usual. But Yawra understood that none of them would protest if she decided to bring Baeloth along. Rather, this was what they seemed to expect – because that was _her_. That was the way she acted. Usually.  
She could still turn him away, simply telling the others the truth, reveal who that drow actually was and what he had done to her; what she had been through.  
_I should just do that._  
  
Instead, she heard herself say, ‟Until we reach the next inn where you will be safe, drow. And then we part ways.”_ For good this time._


	4. Gullykin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Baeloth knows he is running out of time, but determined to use it. After all, how hard can it be to win over a bunch of stupid surfacers?_

Baeloth was playing for time, and he knew it. _One day._ He had one day to convince the wild mage to keep him aboard, and he wasn't even sure it was his safest bet to do so. Yawra didn’t want him to come along, and the look in her eyes had made it very clear that she silently wished to kill him on the spot – even if so far, she hadn't actually tried it.  
  
There was, unfortunately, no doubt that he would need some surfacers’ protection, and where was he to find another group willing to take in a drow?  
He had time to ponder as they kept walking. Nobody talked, and particularly not to him, although Baeloth clearly felt their curious side glances. Was it him being a drow that kept them too intimidated to ask, or were they fearing their wild mage’s rage?  
  
_One day_, he thought, biding his time. Maybe Yawra would give in if her companions urged her to. Imoen seemed compassionate enough to give him a chance, and he imagined Minsc wouldn’t be that hard to convince, either. That grumpy elven archer, however, was clearly keeping his distance, and looking rather wary. The feeling was mutual, Baeloth thought; he wasn’t too fond of surface elves himself. As for Dorn, Baeloth wasn’t sure what to make of him; but if the half-orc was as pragmatic as he appeared to be, he’d surely point out that a drow sorcerer would prove a most useful addition to that party.  
  
_One day_. He had managed to do with less time and on more unpleasant terms before, Baeloth reminded himself. Take that dreadful day in house Xalanthyrr when he had found himself at the mercy of mistress Garna’s sisters and forced to make a choice that would have lead to his death either way. And still, he had somehow wiggled free. _One day. Safe to say I will see sweet success._  
  
But then some lights shone through the trees. Baeloth blinked at them, hoping that he was the only one able to spot them and the miserable huts nearby, but Yawra and the others had seen them, too, and they made their way towards the village.  
  
_One day_, Baeloth kept telling himself as he struggled to keep up with the surfacers. _Even if there is a true tavern in this tacky town, she has promised me one day!_  
  
A small figure held out a torch as they reached the palisades surrounding the small village; a halfling, if Baeloth wasn’t mistaken – which, of course, he was never.

"Who goes there?" the halfling snarled, but even so, he seemed more curious than anything else.  
  
The wild mage stepped forward. Not a wise thing to do, Baeloth thought; if there had been archers hidden nearby, she could have been pierced with arrows within a heartbeat. His eyes scoured the palisades for any sign of hostile presence, but all seemed quiet.  
  
"I’m Yawra of Candlekeep," she firmly told the halfling, "and those are my companions. We’re travellers, just looking for a night’s lodging. What is this place?"  
  
The halfling beamed at her in a way that told Baeloth that strangers were something unusual and exciting here. "This," he replied eagerly, "is just the place you’ve been looking for. Welcome to Gullykin!"

*

Gullykin had no inn, and no roundhouse big enough to shelter six non-halfing guests, but the travellers had been allowed to make camp in the wooden building that served both as temple and winery. Alvanhendar, the grumpy halfling who seemed to be in charge, had sent them down into the cellar, much to Baeloth’s delight; it still was nothing like the Underdark, but at least a little bit underground.  
  
That didn’t make it any more comfortable, though.  
  
Yawra’s group had no spare bedrolls, but the halflings had hurried along and provided him with a straw-stuffed sack to lie on and some woolen blankets, each of them too small to cover Baeloth as they were clearly made and meant for halflings’ use. He still took them and made his provisional bed at some distance from the rest of the group. It might have been a good moment for some lighthearted chit-chat, but he felt way too exhausted to put up with Yawra’s icy side glances and Kivan’s suspicious face.  
  
Imoen, however, came over and kindly asked whether he needed anything else, but went back quickly enough when Yawra sharply called out. Baeloth still figured he should start by winning over Imoen, though. She seemed open-minded and at the same time, close enough to Yawra to have influence her. But any attempt would have to wait until tomorrow.  
  
Of course, Baeloth didn’t sleep; a true drow never did. He was relieved to find that even up here on the surface, he was still able to slip into that state of soft drowsing while staying completely conscious and aware of everything around him, ready to instantly counter any threat that might dare to attack him.  
  
However, his vigilance wasn’t any help against Minsc’s hearty snoring or the hardness of the wooden floor planks. All in all, Baeloth found little rest that night; his thoughts kept spinning, too, making up strategies and witty wordings that would help him to win over Imoen and the rest of the group. Baeloth had always prided himself on his ability to spot weaknesses in others, and come up with ideas of how to exploit them. That talent had come in quite handy while running the Black Pits, when it had been essential to decide whom to pit against whom, how to stage a good show and continually build up tension to keep the audience hook.  
  
But here and now, it was himself stepping up in a deadly arena, and however he sorted his adversaries, it always led up to one final opponent. He was confident that he could convince and charm the whole lot of companions into accepting him, possibly even Kivan. But in the end, he’d have to face Yawra, and one word from her would undo everything he’d have achieved. No matter how much her companions would press for keeping Baeloth around, she clearly was the leader, and in the end, it would be her decision, and she wasn’t likely to give him a chance.  
  
He went through everything he knew about her – the fiery words she had flung at him in the Black Pits, along with dishes of Underdark meals she wasn’t willing to eat. All the times she had tried to stare him down. The ways she had gathered her group of fellow combatants around her, hushing them, whispering instructions and strategies. The way she had moved in the battlefield … Sure enough, Baeloth had never had a fighter like her, easy to underestimate yet full of surprises. But how could he possibly convince her to keep quiet about the Black Pits, and accept his company?

He woke with a start when a plank nearby creaked, realizing he had nearly drifted off completely. A most stupid thing to do, especially up here. Baeloth blinked and noticed Yawra had got up and was moving towards the staircase as quietly as possible, probably heading for the privy.  
He waited until she had almost reached the stairhead before he sat up silently. He wouldn’t get another chance to talk to her alone, and even if he hadn’t worked out his strategy by now, he had to give it a shot.

*

It was a grey and chilly morning, and Baeloth was quite grateful that ugly blinding light the surfacers called sun was not yet dazzling above them. He still shivered a little bit, though, as he waited outside the temple for Yawra to return.

‟Sneaking after me, drow?” the wild mage said coldly as she spotted him. She stopped a few steps in front of him, her eyebrows raised, her head held high.

‟I still go by a name,” Baeloth hissed, a flash of anger stirring hotly inside him. _That dully damsel would never have dared display such disrespectful discourtesy during her detention down in my department!_ At the same time, he remembered she had dared say a lot of things even back then, and reminded himself that he needed to appease her as much as possible.  
  
‟Do you? I couldn’t care less,” she replied, staring daggers.

Baeloth fought the instinctive urge to back off, maybe even lower his head. It was utterly confusing. After all, she was only a surfacer; she had been his captive not long ago, and sure enough, she was still no match for him, not even up here.  
Then again, she was a woman, and he had been taught to bow to females for as long as he could remember … and he was pretty much at _her_ mercy now.  
  
He swallowed the sharp reply he was actually feeling tempted to, and instead said, ‟I just want a word with you, _wild mage_.”  
  
Yawra slightly tilted her head, as if trying to figure out whether he was mocking her. ‟Go ahead, then,” she muttered, ‟and make it quick.”  
  
Baeloth cleared his throat. ‟I think I should thoroughly thank you for so thrillingly thwarting those thugs’ theatrical –”  
  
‟Ah,” she interrupted. ‟Yes, you should thank me.”  
  
He knew he was glaring at her more angrily than he intended to because she smiled back ever so sweetly. They had practically switched roles, and that little brat enjoyed it.  
  
‟I hereby have thanked you,” he said. He had intended that to have more of an effect, but that couldn’t be helped right now. ‟May I hear to which hospitable haven we are headed?”  
  
The corners of her mouth were twitching slightly. ‟It’s none of your business where my companions and I are headed,” she replied. ‟And as for you, I guess you’re headed pretty much nowhere - _drow_.”  
  
Baeloth straightened up. It was useless to remind her once again of his name; she surely remembered it quite perfectly, but apparently she also remembered how carelessly he had used to address his fighters in the Black Pits. _Ah, are you ready, you rivvil? Ready to spill blood on the arena floor?_ He grit his teeth. ‟Why, I am still coming and keeping you company, am I not? You said one day, and that has been mere hours ago.”  
  
Yawra rolled her eyes. ‟I said, ‘until we reach a place where you will be safe’ – and I think this is it.” She paused, apparently pondering whether she should add another disdainful _drow_ to her sentence.  
  
‟Oh, my meticulous mistress, your memory is most mistaken,” Baeloth pointed out, forcing himself to smile. ‟You said ‘one day – until we reach an inn’. It is safe to say that I am still unseasoned in surface stuff, but … There is no inn here!”  
  
She crossed her arms. ‟I’m not a djinn, you see? Not bound by any exact wording, so no need to insist on it. As a matter of fact, I believe you will safe here.”  
  
‟Here!” he echoed.  
  
‟Those halflings are nice enough, they don’t mind you being a drow,” Yawra said flatly. ‟I’m sure they won’t mind you sticking around, either. They all have lower floors in their roundhouses. You should feel quite at home there.”  
  
Baeloth gasped. ‟This is not what you said _before_!”  
  
She shrugged. ‟You’ll be quite fine,” she repeated. ‟If not, maybe grab a shovel and dig your way back to the Underdark. Those halflings might even help you.”  
  
‟But that is not what we agreed upon!” Baeloth snapped once again, although he knew it wasn’t going to change her mind. Nothing was. He had run out of chances.  
  
‟Since when is your kind so keen to keep a promise?” Yawra said coldly. ‟I’ve done much more than you deserve. I spared your life. I took you to a safe place, and I will leave without killing you. It’s more than you could ever ask for.”  
  
Baeloth shook his head, feeling despair surging up. ‟No, no, no, no! Don’t leave me here, you –” He stopped, forced himself to swallow an insult that he knew wouldn’t be helpful. ‟There are pale-skinned barbarians everywhere!”  
  
Her eyebrows rose even higher. ‟Trying to have me pity you? You can’t be serious.”  
  
‟But you … Yawra …” He grabbed her arm as she walked past him towards the wooden stairs leading up to the temple door, and she flinched, quickly wiggling free. Her dark blue eyes gleamed with fury.  
  
‟Don’t you dare and touch me!” she hissed, clenching her fists. ‟And don’t you ever speak my name again, _drow_.”  
  
‟I can be of great help,” Baeloth muttered, but if she heard him, she didn’t show it. She walked up the stairs without looking back.


	5. The Best You Can Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The group moves on without Baeloth, but the attack of some skillful assassins changes everything._

‟I never knew you had a problem with drow,” Imoen muttered as they moved along.  
  
‟I never knew you were that fond of them,” Yawra snapped, knowing that she was being unfair.  
  
Their departure from Gullykin hadn’t exactly been pleasant, although Baeloth had abstained from pleading and begging as well as from any tantrum Yawra had feared. He still had seemed highly unhappy of being dumped in Gullykin, and stayed behind looking so crestfallen that Yawra had found it surprisingly hard of reminding herself that she was not to pity him.  
  
‟It’s just that I felt kind of sorry for that one,” Imoen said quietly.  
  
‟He’ll be safe with the halflings, what do you want?”  
  
Imoen glanced at her with an expression Yawra couldn’t quite understand. ‟It’s just not like you, you know."  
  
_I should tell her_, Yawra thought grimly, but Kivan walked up to them.  
  
‟I’m glad we left him behind,” he said, his voice as noncommitted as usual, but Yawra thought she saw relief flickering in his eyes. ‟He wouldn’t have done any good.”  
  
Imoen frowned. ‟You can’t know that.”  
  
‟A drow, Imoen,” the elf replied curtly, as if that explained everything.  
  
‟How many have you met before?” Imoen asked. ‟I bet he would have been rather nice if only we’d given him the chance. He was also quite funny, don’t you think? The way he talked?”  
  
‟The way he talked about an arena he apparently was running in the Underdark,” Kivan said calmly, and Yawra couldn’t help but feel a flash of gratitude towards him. ‟And the djinn he apparently had enslaved.”  
  
‟He only said–” Imoen began, but fell silent almost immediately. Yawra could tell that her friend hadn’t thought in depth about Baeloth’s story; she had just been charmed by his way of telling it, his attitude which – even Yawra had felt that – had made him appear almost likeable, a mere victim of cruel circumstances.  
  
‟He was careful not to give us all the details,” Kivan said, his voice still quiet, ‟but you won’t get a djinn to do you such favors unless you cheat and trick him into it.”  
  
‟Baeloth said he was betrayed, and he never mentioned slaves,” Imoen muttered stubbornly, but she didn’t look at Kivan. Her face had gently blushed, as if she was starting to feel ashamed she had been carried away by the drow’s tale.  
  
‟The reckless cruelty of the drow is well-known, Imoen, and it’s not a silly prejudice; it’s what they build their society on.” Kivan wasn’t looking at any of them. ‟And it even shows in what they call entertainment. They are known to enslave others, and to that end, they might even come up and capture surfacers. If that one really had his arena, I doubt any of his fighters were there out of their free will.”  
  
Yawra bit her lip and silently clenched her sling. The slim little slave ring suddenly felt unusually hot on her finger.  
Imoen remained silent.  
  
‟I paid attention to his words and all the things he left unsaid,” Kivan said softly, and for a moment Yawra thought he would reach out for Imoen and gently squeeze her arm, but eventually, he didn’t. ‟If those fighters and the djinn stood up against him, rest assured they’ll have had good reasons to do so.”  
  
Yawra couldn’t stop herself from muttering, ‟That’s what I thought, too.”  
  
Imoen glanced at her with a curious expression – not as if she was about to protest, but rather as if there was something she wanted to ask.  
  
Some steps ahead, Dorn groaned, then fell heavily to the ground, and didn’t move. He still breathed, though; a sleeping spell seemed to have hit him.  
  
Yawra gasped, both Imoen and Kivan reached for their bows, and behind them, Boo squeaked furiously.  
  
‟An ambush!” Kivan hissed, nocking his first arrow, and it was only then that Yawra discovered their attackers: four figures emerged from between the forests; two of them in heavy chain mail, equipped with a sword and a morning star, the two others in long and colourful robes. Two wizards, or maybe one of them was a priest, Yawra couldn’t tell for sure.  
  
She heard Minsc scream, then saw him darting forward to attack.  
  
_It’s four against four_, she calmed herself, _even with Dorn down, we can still take them._  
  
As Imoen and Kivan let fly more arrows, Yawra raised her arms, concentrated, felt the wild magic tingle and sizzle around and within her. She muttered an incantation, determined to stick to the traditional way of casting, then shot the magic missiles. Sparkling, they sped towards the group of attackers, more precisely the mage who had started to cast a new spell.  
  
Yawra took a deep breath, preparing for her next spell, too.  
  
Then, just before hitting their target, the magic missiles transformed into a bunch of butterflies, happily flit around the enemies for a moment, then dispersed.  
  
At the same time, a blazing light hit Minsc and had him stumble to the ground, struggling as if fighting invisible bounds; one of the warriors lunged at Imoen, who jumped aside, dropped her bow and reached for her dagger; the second, taller warrior went for Kivan, hitting him hard with the morning star, and Yawra heard her own scream as she saw the archer fall.  
  
It all seemed to happen within a heartbeat, and suddenly it was her and the tall warrior face to face. She hurried backwards and prepared for another spell, for her sling wouldn’t be any good at this short distance; but the mage had now approached as well, and his spell hit her hard before she had even realized him casting it. Its impact made her trip, and next thing she knew, sticky strands shot twisting from the ground, entangling her as if alive, and jerked her down.  
  
Yawra screamed again and struggled, tried to reach for her dagger to cut herself free, but to no avail. The web had her immobilized and helpless in no time.  
  
The tall warrior stepped closer, a malicious smile curling his thin lips. ‟So, we finally meet. Poor little Yawra, I assume you’re completely clueless as to why you must die.”  
  
She glanced up at him, trying to gather her breath. Both her heart and thoughts raced. _There must be a way out of this_, she thought. _Think of one! That can’t be the end! You got away when they killed Gorion, you survived the Black Pits …_  
  
The warrior smiled again, seemingly pleased with her faint struggling in the web that held her. ‟I’m sure you’ve already had problems with an assortment of incompetent bounty hunters,” he said. ‟Well, those days are done. Today, you will die.” But he still looked at her as if waiting for a reply, maybe a plea, anything that would allow him to revel in her helplessness.  
  
_Play for time,_ Yawra thought. _Say something_. _He wants to play with you like a cat would with a caught mouse. This might be your only chance … Keep them distracted until the spells wear off._  
  
It was hopeless, though, and she knew it. Imoen and the other warrior must still be engaging in a mortal dance at some distance from them; the other companions lay inconscious, and even if one of them got back to his feet anytime soon, he would be dizzy, and outnumbered by their attackers. But she still cleared her throat and said, ‟Wait a moment. Who is it that wants me dead?”  
  
The warrior chuckled, his hand playing with the hilt of his sword, and Yawra suddenly was painfully sure that he didn’t mean to give her a quick death. ‟Do not think I would be so foolish as to betray my master’s name. You may know that I am Molkar, and I am your death. Now …”  
  
He never finished the phrase; an arrow of pure green acid hit him right in the face, and Molkar screamed, stumbling backwards, his hands desperately flying to his eyes.  
  
‟Drakar, do something!” the wizard gasped, his gaze flickering between Molkar, the priest and somebody behind Yawra, his hands raised in surprise. The priest hurried closer, the wizard turned to cast a spell himself, but their moment of indecision proved fatal. Although Yawra hadn’t heard any incantation, a fireball exploded mere steps behind them, bursting into a ring of flames that hit all three of them. Next, a colorful rain of magic missiles, and Molkar’s desperate cries of pain died.  
  
Yawra’s mouth felt dry. She was still held by the web, still defenseless, and she felt her eyes widen as Baeloth stepped into sight, flicking imaginary dust from his robes and looking immensely pleased with himself.  
  
‟Ridiculous _rivvin_, weren’t they?” he told her as he stopped and looked down at her. ‟And still, your and your party’s performance proved pretty pitiful. I’ve presenced more powerful profiles in the profuse pandemonium of my Pits.”  
  
Yawra met his gaze and knew they had switched roles again; she was at his mercy now, and he was sure to exploit it. He was a drow, after all, and one she had humiliated deeply. ‟How did you …” She wasn’t even sure how to complete that sentence.  
  
Baeloth beamed. ‟Beat them all? Why, with my blasting belligerent brilliance. I absolutely advise to pay more attention, as I actually explained that I still command some of my powers. Ah, I suppose I’ll have you see some more sorcerous specialties …” He raised his hand, muttering an incantation, and the spell leapt down at her as a flood of shimmering light before she could even draw her breath, and then it … didn’t do anything.  
  
Or at least not what she’d expected it to do: It didn’t hurt; it merely tingled a little bit around her body, then disappeared, and she found herself still lying at Baeloth’s feet – but the webs had gone.  
  
She blinked, then carefully sat up, feeling confused. ‟Imoen … the others …”  
  
‟All alive,” Baeloth told her, and made no attempt to stop her from getting to her feet. ‟Some spells might need lifting … well, if you’ll let me.”  
  
Yawra inhaled. ‟What are you up to?” she asked warily.  
  
The drow raised an eyebrow. ‟Proving helpful.”  
  
She stared at him.  
  
‟I observe you’re oddly oblivious of my opportune offer you already objected to,” Baeloth said. ‟I ought to be offended, of course, but I’ll omit that. So, it occurs the option is still open.”  
  
Yawra realized she was waiting for an addition – a hint of threat that would be accompanied and disguised by one of his typical, almost charming smiles.  
But instead, the drow just added: ‟And if I may mingle with your motley mates, I might also mentor you to manage your magic more masterfully.”  
  
She bit her lip, unsure what to say. ‟You’re not a wild mage.”  
  
‟Neither is that necessary,” Baeloth replied mildly. ‟I remain one of the best spellcasters in all the realms, remember?” He quickly glanced around as if he wanted to make sure nobody else was listening. ‟The excessive experience and expertise I entail should be enticing enough for you to enroll me, I expect.”  
  
‟So if I agreed to take you with us,” Yawra said slowly, hoping to gain at least a few heartbeats before she would be forced to make a decision, ‟and … protect you from whatever may threat you as a drow up here, you’d …”  
  
‟Comply with your commands,” Baeloth finished the sentence for her, maybe a little bit sourly, but that washed off as he went on. ‟You can call upon my capacities as a competent companion in combat. And clearly, a courteous and considerate counsellor when it comes to the conscious conquest of your conjuring competences … the most marvelous mentor for mastering your magic.” He paused, and lowered his gaze as if feeling uncomfortable. ‟I’ll disappear the day you decide to dispatch me,” he muttered, ‟or … if we were to find an entrance to the Underdark …”  
  
Yawra stood and waited, thinking about his words and his offer, about her magic. She had learned a great deal of theory from the books she had devoured back at Candlekeep, and had more practice than she’d ever wished for in the Black Pits, but the recent attack had proved, once more, that she had still a lot to learn when it came to really control her abilities. Currently, she wasn’t exactly helpful to the rest of her group, and she would have to do something about it.  
  
That being said, it wasn’t that easy for a wild mage to find somebody who could teach her … or would be willing to.  
  
_You’ve seen what he can do; he’s probably the best you can find_, a voice whispered within her.  
  
But at the same time, she couldn’t help but remember Baeloth’s condescending smirk back in the Black Pits; the carelessness with which he sent his captured fighters to their deaths; the disappointment in his eyes when they, other than expected, survived another battle, another round. He had been so full of himself, always taunting, never showing any signs of mercy or compassion, and clearly enjoying what he was doing. Yet here he stood, offering his allegiance, his superiority gone for the moment.  
  
‟What if,” she said, ‟I turned you down again?”  
  
Baeloth flinched, nervously kneading his fingers. She saw him swallow hard and was certain that he’d drop his submissive mask now, hiss that she needed him and should be grateful for him to offer any help at all.  
  
But then, he only shrugged, and looked at her. ‟Well, nothing, I guess,” he muttered. ‟You’ll be gone, and I …” He shrugged again. ‟I’m not so foolish to follow you across Faerûn, if that’s what you fear. I know full well …” He stopped, but Yawra knew what he left unspoken: that she could reveal the truth to her companions anytime, that he stood no chance if they all attacked him together. And she also realized that he hadn’t insisted in making her silence part of the deal he offered. It seemed unlikely that he had simply forgotten about it; rather, he seemed willing to put his fate entirely in her hands.  
  
She inhaled deeply, clenched her fists, then relaxed her fingers again. ‟Very well,” she said. ‟You come with us, then.”  
  
Relief flashed in his red eyes and made him, for a short moment, seem more vulnerable than she’d ever seen him before. ‟You won’t regret that,” he assured.  
  
‟I shall hope so,” Yawra said, as sharply as she could, then turned around. ‟Now help me with the others, please. We’ll have to head back to Gullykin’s temple.”


End file.
